


Above the Cornfield

by Caranx



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hayseed junkrat, He's a scarecrow, Insects and Insect death, Limb loss, M/M, Magic, eventual love, farming au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 03:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caranx/pseuds/Caranx
Summary: He wakes up tied 8 feet above a cornfield, alone, with night rolling in fast. But he's not afraid. It feels like home.





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hi i love the hayseed legendary and i needed to write about him being a scarecrow for everyones favorite corn farming hog man.

At first, he couldn't see, just heard the buzzing of nearby mosquitoes looking for skin, beetles and fly wings vibrating past his ears, crickets below him squeaking out a familiar tune. His eyes squinted and watered when they tried to focus on the light ahead. A burning orange horizon bouncing off the tips of a uniform field of stalks. His wrists were barely held to his wooden crucifix by loops of fraying rope; he easily pulled his hands through and out. Strung up 8 feet above the ground, feet balanced on a block 5x5 inches, one change of stance and he'd be tumbling off in a less than calculated way. Rubbing his fingertips together felt awkward. Rough and numb, like they were asleep. Stitches ran up his wrist. He felt up his arm to find the jagged cuts racing up his skin, wrapped around his bicep, across his chest where they caught on rough and weathered clothing. All of his skin felt numbed, as if he was touching it with a thick jacket on. A patchwork doll. He felt smooth leather on his face, metal tunnels around his eyes that creaked softly when he looked from left to right. 

He landed on his side, barely missing the stalks planted in front of him. Beetles crawled onto his arm, thin insect legs too delicate for him to feel on his too-thick skin without spotting them. The moon rose up, and it was easier to see. Easier to walk between endless lanes of plants. He noticed clusters of earworms digging through husks, trying to find dinner. He squeezed the ones he spotted as he walked by, dropping them to the floor for other insects to feast on. Soft dirt eased between his toes as he walked, twigs dug in occasionally, but felt muted and dull. He ignored them and walked on. He walked in circles and loops, picking worms and pulling at leaves. Cool air passed under his mask and smelled of fresh dirt and decomposing plant matter. He scratched at the dry hay tickling his neck and shoulders under his hood. The sky lightened and his gut told him that he shouldn’t be caught roaming the rows.

On his way back to the wooden beams he fell from, he took in the buildings of the property. A freshly painted barn, orange. A tall brick silo. An aged cabin was visible near his perch. A home. As he climbed up the splintered beam, back onto his 5x5 pedestal, he turned his head to the wooden structure. Uneven stairs which bent and caved at the center from years of supporting heavy steps led up to a porch with a bench, all covered by an awning of boards. He wanted to memorize the small house. He wanted to visit it. A primal urge to explore: Curiosity. He barely had enough time to take in the patches of wall where white paint had chipped off in huge chunks until the sun began to rise. His eyes began to blur and burn as early morning mists of grey dissipated into rays of golden dawn. The tint of his goggles helped counter the blinding sun, but he bent his head down to avoid the light altogether . He slipped his wrists into the loose ropes as he heard the creaking of wood.  
Doors.  
Doors. 

But he couldn't turn, he stiffened. It felt unnatural to move. Wrong. He had to hide, but in plain sight of course. He couldn't give himself away. But his brain scrambled and rushed with the adrenaline of the idea of another living thing besides ones that could fit into his hand. No, the creaking of his eyes would be obvious. Crickets continued their songs but he filtered it out. Nevermind the company of lowly night crawlers; he could hear the rustling of crop leaves as something bigger moved between the stalks, just as he had mere hours before. He itched to look up and regretted his decision to pose staring at the dirt below him. Dirt imprinted with his own bare feet. Foolish. He swallowed. His heartbeat would quicken with the rustling of stalks closer to him. Was it the afternoon wind, or the owner of the property. Was he part of the property? Under the possession of the person in the house?

His excitement ended too soon and too late with the opening and closing of the door at sunset, and so his eyes and heart relaxed. He finally peered up at the house to watch the lights in the rooms switch off one by one.  
Who flicked the switches.  
Who planted and tended to the fields.  
Who strung him up to oversee the property, to rid the crops of pests. 

He pulled his hands from the ropes and jumped down from his ledge. This time he landed on sure feet.

This time he felt like running, fresh excitement flowed through him at the idea of company. He felt as though years had been spent in solitude. He has only been awake for one day, but the ache for the attention of someone else felt deeper and older than his time spent conscious.  
He ran through the forest of dark green, thick rows, even and organized, which waved and parted when he passed by. He ran the perimeter, and saw a dilapidated fence mark the edge of his home.  
Could he call it his home?  
He thought he could.  
It felt right. 

Snap.

Face first into cool dirt and he felt a dull pressure on his foot. He twisted to see his foot bent unnaturally, crushed and cracked to the right, rusted metal teeth bit into flesh almost clean through at the ankle. He felt nothing but the pressure of something tugging at his ankle when he tried to pull loose. He yanked his leg and flailed. Panic. An animal in a trap. 

The sky lightened.

He pounded at the steel trap with shaking fists, picked at rusty springs with blackened nails, and pried the jaws with his bare hands. Minutes passed in futile struggling. He pulled at a pole of the nearby fence, feeling himself finally part with the useless foot. When he was able to move away from the trap, he felt lighter. Much lighter. A glance to the ground revealed his leg to the knee lying in the dirt, far above the ankle where jaws remained clamped down, stitches brutally ripped out and detached. Where a seam had once passed above his knee, his thigh now sprouted a thick bundle of hay. Fogging breath came out sharp and fast and his body shook.  
He knew it had once been flesh; the leg that was now a rod of silly canvas stuffed with dry straw and a puffy foot of the same stuck in the trap. He could feel blood flow under the skin of his twin leg, where stitches still held him together strong and well. 

He sat and shook in the dirt. 

The crickets and beetles that crawled along him, that had been his company and entertainment the night before, now made him feel alone. This felt wrong. Disgusting. His stomach turned at the sight of his jokingly fake detached leg. The canvas of his limb ripped from the jaws easily, but tangled in the springs and he abandoned it there. He used the fence to stand. His remaining knee felt weak and shook. He hobbled towards his perch. He didn't look back. He absentmindedly crushed worms as he slowly hopped along.  
Why was he here.  
Who lived in the home.  
What was their name.  
What was his name. 

He struggled to clamber back on to his stand. He teetered on one leg as he placed his hands in their usual position. Would his owner even notice? 

This time, he looked ahead towards the field.

Morning grey into fresh warming sun.  
And the creaking of a wooden door.


	2. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was the point of being able to walk and think without sharing it with the only person he wanted to share it with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi this kinda bothered me as an ooc junkrat chapter but i have an explanation for it at the end notes if ur interested
> 
> hope its ok

He couldn’t see the door from his angle staring across the plain. No, he had to wait for the door to slam shut along with a second one of worn metal mesh. Stairs creaked and whined horribly, and, when the homeowner stepped into view, he understood why. A massive beast, towering over the corn stalks. Dark sunglasses blocked out his eyes, but his face was otherwise bare. Huge arms crossed over a large gut and a thick lips pressed tightly together. Unlike his own, the massive man’s skin was darkened, making silver hair and scruff stand out along his jaw and head. He wondered how he managed to walk between the rows without smashing and breaking his investments. 

He thanked whatever God made his pole so high up, the same pole he had spent dozens of minutes cursing and trying to clamber up with only one leg hours before. From up above, he could easily spot a tight grey ponytail sticking out among thousands of thin green heads. Traveling row after row, diligent and slow, stopping to overturn leaves and kneeling down to check for stalk rot. Sprinklers began to cover some of the plots, timed one after the other. The ponytail moved with ease, avoiding rows mid watering and looking through the remaining dry patches. 

He couldn’t see the signature hair, but he could spot the parting of the spires. He was farther, reaching the perimeter of the crops. Near the fence. A man strung up above the fields shook in time with winds that blew corn heads, but shook more when the man in the distance stopped.  
Minutes passed.  
Then he began to walk straight through the rows. A beeline towards the lone beam standing tall above. A shark in the water, grey fin parting a sea of green.

Fear or instinct or both made him frozen limp against the ropes on his wrists, when a man in a plaid shirt stood below him. He could see his leg in the other’s hand, mismatched and horribly fake looking compared to the one still attached to him. The man below grunted in annoyance (he barely stopped himself from flinching in response) and trudged off in the direction of the house. It wasn’t sunset yet; he shouldn’t be going back to the house yet. Minutes felt like hours, time dripped and his heart still beat in his throat. 

A screen door vibrated as it opened and shut. But he saw no one. Leaves rustled behind him, distinctly noisy compared to the occasional burst of afternoon winds. Metal creaked under heavy feet. He couldn’t turn. All of his senses were on high alert, but he stayed still. He could smell nothing but sun warmed dirt and could see nothing but the usual landscape of farmland. He could hear deep breathing, and finally, the touch of another living thing. Was he living? He did not possess aged and dark, sun spotted skin. He could not relate with the thick and warm fingers that pulled his comparatively sickly thin hands from their usual loops. He could not relate with the strong and sun heated shoulder he was placed on, slick with a sweat that his own body failed to produce under the same sun’s heat. He could not relate with the heavy wheezing and occasional coughs that shook the both of them while stepping down a termite ravaged ladder. 

He could not relate to the sigh of relief when he was pulled through a screen door and into cooler air. He did not feel the pain which came with being dropped onto bare floors. 

A metal tool box clattered next to him and a too-deep voice muttered something about “kids” and “pranks” and “his hay-man”. A huge hand brushed against his straw bundle stump, the feeling distant like fingers barely gracing over hair. An irritated scowl came into view, sans sunglasses. Deep lines and grooves marked the cheeks of his owner’s face. Piercing dark eyes set him on edge. A strong square face and jaw set rigid with annoyance. In all its definitions, sublime. Fear inducing, yet mysterious. A countenance attractively raw, beaten by a natural and unique life. What had his owner experienced. What was his own origin. He hungrily took in the view of a face he was sure he would never see again. The urge to move and reach up, to feel the same features under hardly sensate fingertips was hardly reined in in time. The curiosity and the need to see the stoney face change and react. He barely stifled the urge to experiment with his boundaries. 

Rough hands jerked his leather head side to side, looking for any more damages from being supposedly dragged around by children. He felt his cheeks tug up as the edge of his owner’s plaid shirt gently wiped the glass of his binocular goggles. He vaguely registered the existence of his own features beneath the mask. The other’s features interested him hundreds of times more. He heard the clicking of the loosened buttons of his clothes being clicked back into place by huge and patient hands. His heart thumped with pleasure in a body that craved the acknowledgement of existence. His cold numbed body thrummed with ecstasy from the attention and touch. His mind focused on how massive hands lightly lifted his arms and twisted his wrists. Paused to inspect bug gut covered fingers. Lifted his stump to see how deep the straw ran. 

The huge man hummed above him while he worked and he felt like sobbing in return. He felt years of loneliness, years of motionless hanging above the fields, brought on by a familiar tune that was hummed while working in the fields below. Where his body was tireless and immortal, with a heart he was sure did not exist beyond his imagination, he watched a man age and toil for decades, while he stood watch above. Strong hands calloused after days upon days of holding primal tools. Tools that stayed in his owner’s hands while neighbors turned to machines that roared and did work in hours that used to take days. Memories which came in torrenting flood, from when he lacked sentience, inspired by the rumbling tones of the working man he could only call his family. 

“Can’t have you up there lookin’ like the tin soldier”, and a wheezy chuckle that fell on assumedly unhearing ears. He felt such a closeness to the man that now hammered wood in place of his missing leg. The same voice that some nights, in a past he vaguely remembered as his own, mockingly had wished him “goodnight” on his way out of the fields. The itch to leap up and embrace the man that shared his life in solitude returned. He doubted the man would receive his consciousness well. He enjoyed the solitude. He enjoyed his only company being a man made of hay that couldn’t make noise.  


Did Mako consider him family? Mako. His name was Mako. Keystone memories of men in suits coming to buy the farm. “Mako Rutledge-”, they grinned, “your land is worth thousands.”

Curtly interrupted, and threatened. Get out of his sight. Escorted off the property. He was glad for the stitched grin on his mask at the time, that mocked the shocked businessmen, that laughed at their misery. A grin of pride at the steadfast and unchanging personality of his owner. A man who loved constancy and a day to day life that was the same as the last. 

Strong and sure hands threw him over a meaty shoulder and carried him out to his old stand. He wanted to pound at the back for carrying him back over to loneliness. Like a child sent to sit in the corner as punishment. The life he lived unknowingly as a doll hung to scare away crows did not sate him. Unlike Mako, he was tired of isolation. Tired of all his memories being of long nights spent looking over a field whose only sounds were the wind whistling through leaves and shrill chirping of insects. Tired of daylight spent glassy eyed, immobile and watching his only hope for companionship walk right by him.

He wanted attention.  
He wanted to feel Mako’s sharp eyes on him, unblocked by the usual dark glasses. To look at him in his new state of existence, an existence even he did not fully understand.  
He wanted to move and speak and tell Mako everything he’d seen. How close he felt to him. That he had spent countless hours watching over him and the land, listening to him hum. He wanted to be the family the home lacked. He wanted to run in the fields during the day, to take part of the load on Mako’s shoulders and to be his partner. To poke and prod at him and earn any emotion the larger man would generate. Anger or annoyance or even the rare amusement that would set his scarecrow off with even more energy and joy. Could he speak? He wanted to tell stories, to tell jokes and hear the large man laugh like he did when he scared off the businessmen. He craved the rare sole spotlight of Mako’s attention and care.

He was cursed, his natural state one of eternal stillness. His animation was an abnormality.

And Mako didn’t much appreciate change.

“Back to work, Jamie”, was huffed as he was strung up in his usual spot. His head lolled downwards, not bothering to put in the minimal effort needed to hold his head upright in still pose and watch Mako leave him. 

He didn’t want to see him go.  
Stay. After all these years, stay with me. He was finally able to appreciate his company. The imposing and silent figure that roamed the fields and acknowledged no one but a fake man of hay that hung above his fields.   
The cold brute of a man he had come to think of as his closest friend turned and walked back into the house. Slammed the metal screen. 

The glare he wanted to send to the dirt below him softened when he focused on the wooden peg in the place of his missing limb. 

Would Mako treat him with such casual kindness and extraordinarily rare conversation if he knew he was awake?  
No. He was rewarded for his silence, for his state of nonexistence. Bitterly, he imagined himself being threatened, escorted off the property by Mako, his old perch empty and taunting him, laughing at his misery, at his now suddenly stupid and meaningless existence.

He stood still far past nightfall staring at his new leg.

And in the short two days he had been gifted the abilities to sense and think, he now wanted neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heres my explanation of why i wrote him like this compared to canon rat:  
> i tried to imagine how horrible it would be for him to not be able to act out and be annoying and loud. His personality is one of an entertainer who needs attention. Hayseed is just realizing his personality. He's showy and provocative. Anyway i was thinking of how torturous it would be for him to have to be dead still and quiet. Especially when he has the chance to entertain and impress his favorite hog/farmer/owner 
> 
> A classically immobile hay man is kind of the worst thing for him to be. Up on a stage with an audience but he cant move or speak. Poor guy
> 
> Anyways my twitter is @kophing_ and my tumblr is kophing.tumblr.com hmu if u wanna talk hayseed or if u just wanna chat in gen. 
> 
> (P.S. IF U SPOT ANY TYPOES. SHOOT ME A MESSAGE ON TWIT/TUMBLR AND JUST COPY PASTE THE TYPO... ID LOVE U A TON IF YOU DID BC I DONT HAVE A BETA. THE BETA IS ME. IM SCARED AND ALONE. HELP ME.)


	3. Doll Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again on the wood beam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short transition chapter before I write the things I wanna write >:)

Several grueling weeks of stillness on the wood beam forced Jamie to adapt. He learned how to look at Mako without his goggles creaking. He learned how to change his head position to catch the moments where Mako entered and exited his home. Could watch him sit on his porch and drink tea in silence. As silent as it could be with swarms of horse flies and the bumblebees from the neighboring farms. Jamie liked the idea of bees. He remembers Mako had attempted beekeeping, but it fell through when he couldn’t finish building the nest boxes. Jamie was sure he could do it. He’d been spending his nights checking the traps that had taken one of his favorite limbs. He sprung traps with twigs to test them, reset them, cleaned the springs and hid the plates under fallen corn leaves. He became more fearless, sneaking into the barn to check drawers for extra parts when their originals broke. Fixed fence holes and mended the roof over the pigpen. Mako loved the little piglets, usually litter leftovers from the county fair where those runts left unbought would surely be slaughtered. Otherwise, Jamie tried to avoid the pigpen as much as he could- the pigs tended to squeal and run in panic if he ever came into view. It gave him a bad feeling. It was only after seeing himself in the water troughs reflection that he understood. Old leather stitched up tight with a loosened gaping smile across his face. His eyes were crooked and gold, lit from the inside by something he could not even begin to guess was. He thought for a moment that he'd be good at scaring anything, not just pesky birds, and giggled. The piglets squealed in response and began to climb over each other to hide deeper into the corner. Jamie left. 

More people came to the farm, wanting to buy the land, saying the city had much more to offer. Others came to barter for the natural gas pocket underneath. Or oil. Or the fresh water of the lake. 

All were soon met with a shotgun and the not so polite request that they piss off. 

What once made Jamie swell with pride now made him shake with anxiety and he forced himself to look away during these confrontations. 

The people leaving kept looking more impatient. Those things out of reach only become sweeter and more wanted when they're pulled away even farther. The natural need to attain the unattainable. 

And so they started to come at night. Jamie was in the fields when the first trap went off with a sharp snap. No scream, no injuries. Hired men paid to harass. Morning came and so did Mako, finding spray painted threats on the side of the silo, red and bold words claiming to have the ability to force the land out of his ownership. They came more often, leaving sprayed notes, and boxes of papers on his doorstep. He’d watch Mako read them and then rip them up. Spend precious daylight painting over the messages. Some nights, Mako stayed up late outside keeping watch. Jamie wished he could protect the field from predators other than birds and coons.

And finally came the day where they walked through the fields over to his perch and shook him down. Propped him up against their truck as they crushed stalks and let loose packages of insects onto the field. Laughed to themselves about pushing Mako to “sell or starve”. The hired intimidation cackled and confidently sprayed the old house. Jamie itched to get up. To strangle the idiots and string them up along the entrance gate. But he instead sat stone still against the huge back tire and watched. He wasn't very good at his job he supposed. 

Strong hands tied a rope tight to his wrist and to the trailer hitch. The truck rumbled and began to roll off, pulling him with it. Gained speed over sand roads. He could hear rather than feel his clothes rip against the gravel and pebbles. The friction peeled away at the skin on his back, lifting like paper. He looked up to see the stitches above his elbow already loosened an inch apart. Two inches. And finally, ripped away, leaving him rolling to the side of the road as the truck zoomed off ahead. His wooden leg was chipped and splintered from the jumbling along the road. He tried not to look too often at his newly stumped appendage as he hobbled back home down the road. By the time he reached the entrance gates, grey morning mist had started to settle and he didn't have the time to return to his spot. 

He collapsed limp on the road near the wooden home and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP makos livelihood  
> Twitter is @kophing_  
> Tumblr is kophing


	4. Come Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually the worst when it comes to updating I'm sorry

Jamie could see more than feel the morning moisture sink into his overalls. Crumpled against the ground in faux desertion, he watched the dirt that had gathered on his body from being dragged down the road melt together into mud. His right goggle was cracked. From where he lay, he could see the stalks of some ruined plants toppled over and leaning onto the fence. 

 

Two to three months of careful cultivation ruined in a single night of greed powered harassment. No arm and no leg, he was equally fragile. 

 

The metal mesh door grated open and clanged shut just as it did every morning, but the sound of walking came closer to him rather than into the fields. Crunching and squeaking of wet gravel under heavy boots was interrupted by a nasty and pained cough that made his heart ache. He heard a grunt and deep sniff as the homeowner knelt down. Jamie squeezed his eyes shut when he was flipped onto his back, realizing the mask’s broken lenses might have ruined his anonymity. 

 

Did he even have a human face? Was it just muscle memory? He tried to disregard the thoughts as he was once again thrown over a thick shoulder. Water droplets pattered down from above, ricocheting or sliding down the huge back. Warm skin cushioned through a thick cotton vest almost made him shiver with joy. 

 

His gloved fingers twitched against the vest, itching to latch on and stay close. He took in the scent of fresh rain, sated dirt, and musky skin. Alive. The dream came to a close as he was oh so suddenly dropped onto the floors again. Mako easily stepped around him and continued his “rainy day routine”. Days like this were spent herding the animals into their sheds where the water would have trouble reaching them and then returning back to the house.

 

Blessing whatever god there was for letting him drop with his head turned towards the living room, he watched Mako sharpen fishhooks he used during the summer. The hooks weren’t flashy. Plain and dependable, kept in a tin box which jangled in his pocket when he walked down the road those hot summer days. He would leave in the late afternoon, when it just started to cool, and come back at night with fish strung up. Largemouth and smallmouth bass. Trout. Pike. Pickerel. Perch. Panfish. Two, three feet long and gutted outside near the shed and washed off with a bucket of stale water from their home lake. 

 

Notes softly began to play from an old player on Mako’s desk. The entrance of somber tones told a story using instruments that Jamie could not even imagine existing. Dark and deep, the sounds plunged Jamie into reminiscence. Mako didn’t eat any meat besides fish. He never touched the drove of pigs he kept in the pen by the barn, letting them grow far past the size for butchering and into old age. Several of the oldest runts by now had died, the oldest reaching 14 years. He would bury them late at night and sit out on the porch longer than usual. It felt more solemn and lonely than other nights. Yes, Jamie swore that the crickets chirped a different tune. 

 

Mako sat down next to him, a new tin box in his hand. The floorboards creaked beneath them when he was dragged onto the huge man’s lap. He almost moved. Almost. His hand barely stopped itself from grabbing onto Mako. A threaded needle dug into the fraying canvas of his arm, and another hand stuffed the loose hay back into the stump. With no feeling in his arm, he had the luxury of fully taking in the moment. Held in the lap of his owner, being cared for and sewn back together, warm arms wrapped around hims. Heavy breaths were easily heard over the music. Heavy breaths barely warmed his skin when Mako bent over to snap the leftover strand with his teeth. 

 

Mako sniffed and pushed him off of his lap. The mud on the scarecrow’s body had begun to dry in the warm home, and the farmer clapped his hands free of the dust. The record player was stopped, the lights shut off. With his head turned the other way, Jamie could only hear Mako trudge up the steps to the second floor.  
And then quiet. 

 

It was hard to sit up with only one hand and half an arm. Even harder to stand with the peg leg whose wood still retained enough moisture to keep it fully muddied up. He couldn't resist the curiosity to look through the living room shelves. Small porcelain pigs, polished shiny, sat or slept in a glass cabinet. Records organized in rows were kept in an old crate meant for oranges. In every corner of the room, he could imagine Mako going through his daily routine: the stained coffeemaker on the kitchen counter, a well-worn and caved in laz-e boy, and fireplace. He studied the fine paintings on antique plates, accidentally clinking his goggles on some and felt the soft towels on the stove handle. He wished his clothes were as soft as this. He felt the huge coat on the hook by the door and confirmed his own flannel to be of much rougher material. Fraying, he thought, pulling at the stray red strands. 

 

Until he heard the distinct click of a shotgun being cocked..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) 
> 
> \---  
> Also for the record player song, I was listening to Ottorino Respighi, Metamorphoseon modi XII and boy it gives me such Roadhog vibes don’t get me started
> 
> I'm kophing on Tumblr and @kophing_ on twit. HMU

**Author's Note:**

> basically if a part gets separated from junkrat it turns into a regular ol scarecrow part. hes just magic :/ 
> 
> lemme know what u think in the comments. i love any and all commentary. thx for readin.
> 
> im @kophing_ on twitter and i got a tumblr kophing.tumblr.com.  
> hmu if u wanna chat (doesnt have to be about this fic smh)


End file.
